Wolf Warrior
by Sfortuna
Summary: Reigning in her mare, she dismounted, sinking into the fluffy snow. It soaked her skirt, but her underthings and boots stayed dry. The breath of the lady and the equine ghosted into the still air as one led the other along some invisible track. Somewhere, a wolf howled.
1. Chapter 1

**Wolf Warrior**

**-Sfortuna**

**Notes:** This is AU as hell since I've only seen the TV series. So I'm mostly projecting my own hopeful guesstimates of the future, though I highly doubt it will go this way. The rating _will_ go up! You have been warned!

**Chapter 1**

Sansa knew better than to ride in the Wolfswood alone, but that certainly never stopped her from doing so when she was of a mind to. Once upon a time she had been afraid; of horses, being alone, the woods. The list went on and on at one point in her life, yet war had a way of changing people. Sansa had not fought with sword and shield, her chosen weapons were words and courtly actions. However, there had been moments where no word or courtesy in the world would have saved her from a situation; that is where she thanked the old gods and the new that she had Sandor Clegane to stand for her. And in the end, he taught her to fight her fears.

TheWolfswood, with its fresh late snowfall and quietude, happened to be quite peaceful. Few people lived there, a couple hermits, sometimes in the summer a less savory type of folk would hide from the kings justice in the oak and evergreen. Even with winter coming to a close, the cold lingered too much in the air for any outlaw to seek refuge there.

Sansa looked up, letting the weak sunlight spill across her face. She smiled and thanked the old gods for this time of peace. Bran did well as King in the North, surprisingly so to many. However, there was much still to be done; Winterfell and it's banners survived winter, yet not wholly. Many had died, through war or cold mattered not, and Sansa shared the burden of her brother in helping to rebuild and regroup. Winter had come, and once again the Stark family lived to tell the tale.

Reigning in her mare, she dismounted, sinking into the fluffy snow. It soaked her skirt, but her underthings and boots stayed dry. The breath of the lady and the equine ghosted into the still air as one led the other along some invisible track.

Somewhere, a wolf howled.

**-Game of Thrones-**

Sandor looked over the nearly-finished dagger with a practiced eye. While he had no skill for smithing, he knew how to judge a good blade from a bad one and had a particular interest in seeing this one done correctly. He wanted it's future owner to be able to trust it would stand wear and time. He held it up to the light of the ever-burning forge and scanned it with eye as well as hand.

"You've got the materials?" He demanded.

The blacksmith grunted his aye. The man could rival Sandor for burliness, yet he had very little height accorded to him. Being squat and brutishly muscular had made him a great blacksmith to replace the loyal Mikken that had frozen two years past. That he had survived the trip North looked all the better for him as well.

"Good. Remember what I said about the gems."

The ex-Lannister dog handed back the blade and made his way back to the keep proper. The forge kept the smithy bloody hot even in the Northern winter, so walking back out into the weather made him grunt in displeasure at the abrupt change. Even the closing of the heavy doors behind him did not block out the cold the way forge-flame did. He absentmindedly brushed at snowflakes that were taking their sweet time to melt on his face and tickled the flesh of his unburned side.

"My Lord!"

A young boy skidded to a stop right next to him, somewhat out of breath and sweating through his heavy clothes. It was clear that he had been running through the keep in search of him.

"What?" Sandor rasped, scowling at the youth.

"His Grace urgently requests your presence."

Snorting, the large man walked towards the kitchens. "Oh he does? And what does His Grace wish from me today?" Chuckling, he rubbed his hands and ignored the boy dogging his heels.

"I don't know, milord, but he said it concerns his sister, the Lady Sansa."

Sandor stopped dead on the stairs. The boy ran into him, tripped on the steps, and fell backwards. The moment his ass hit stone, he got pulled back up and right off his feet. Eyes wide, his face inches from the older man's, the page gulped and shivered.

He growled, "And what about the Lady Sansa is so urgent?"

Small hands grasping the large forearms of the great Hound, the boy replied, "I don't know milord! He just said twas urgent, to find you quick as can be and tell you to see him!"

"Seven Hells and all their Devils."

Taking the steps two at a time, Sandor retraced his steps quickly and set the boy to his feet at the top without stopping. He stormed through the stony halls of the keep and any that encountered him quickly moved out of the way. At the doors of the king's office, two guards stood; one opened the door as he approached and quietly closed it behind him.

King in the North, Brandon Stark, sat at his desk with Summer lounging nearby. The large direwolf somehow managed to fit through the halls and doors of most of the keep, unfailingly sticking close to his human companion. Used to wolves everywhere he went these days, Sandor paid the creature no mind as he stormed right up the desk and put his hands on the front edge of the weirwood furniture.

"What about Sansa?" He rasped, dark eyes watching the face of his king.

"Good day Lord Clegane," King Bran replied. "My sister made off with a horse early this morning. No one else went with her."

"Dammit," Sandor snarled, "What the hells was she thinking? There's been too many damned bandits roaming the villages, doesn't she know that?"

"It doesn't matter." Bran waved his hand in the air, as if swatting a fly. "She's out there, all alone. Find her."

Straightening, the older man noticed that Summer watched him, ears pricked forward in interest.

"I'll gather some men, and tan her ass for the trouble!"

Throwing the door open, Lord Clegane stormed out as quickly as he had stormed in, the King in the North's laughter following him through the halls and stairwells.

**-Game of Thrones-**

"I thank you for the fire and warm milk, grandmother." Sansa respectfully curtsied to the elder. "I won't wander too much longer before heading home."

"Ye'd best be going home now, lovely." Two wrinkled and claw-like hands grasped one of her own. "Winter's leavin' us, but there's colder and more unforgivin' things in the wood than snow." The papery skin and fragile bones pressed hard, then let go to pull at the raggedy furs and cotton around thin and stooped shoulders.

"I will take your advice. Fare well."

With a last nod, Sansa mounted her horse and turned it towards Winterfell. The sun had moved faster than she anticipated and she felt a trickle of worry that it would be dark before she could make it back.

"Surely everyone will be working themselves into fits by now," She muttered to her horse, patting it's neck as she urged it to a quick trot. "No matter, they will see that I am well enough."

Maybe an hour away from the old woman's hut, Sansa began to feel as if she was being followed. As quiet as the forest had been all day, there were still the small rustlings of little creatures and birds. Even that noise had stopped. While on the run, the Lady of Winterfell had learned signs such as these heralded something Not Right. A large predator, bandits, armies, thieves, and any number of other Bad Things. Nudging her horse to go faster, but not quite into an all out run, she reached into her saddlebags and pulled out a small dirk. Fear made her grip it until her knuckles were white, unseen in her gloves, but she kept her bearing steady and scanned the wood for any potential threats.

When she saw the pile of fallen trees, she knew that would be a good spot to hide an ambush. When the men jumped out from behind it and quickly surrounded her, spears threatening her horse, it was with a grim sort of satisfaction that she congratulated herself on her guess.

"Lookee here!"

"How big are her teats?"

"I ain't fer no sloppy seconds!"

Men, dirty and rank looking, ragged wool and leather layered for warmth, and axes tucked into belts or held in hands empty of spears. They lacked the decoration of mountain men and the furs of wildlings and most Northerners. Southern men, escaping to the North? Whoever they were, they clearly meant her no good.

"Who is it that waylays the Lady of Winterfell?" She called out over their clamor. That shut them up, as they looked at one another in consternation and maybe even a bit of fear. Then one started to laugh, and that gave the rest of them courage to laugh and continue their banter.

"We're naught but poor huntsmen milady." The man that spoke up grinned at her with a mouth full of rotten teeth. "No persons of importance here!" He planted his spear into the snow and waved around. "We're just some lonesome men lookin' fer a good time."

The spears came closer and Sansa thought quickly as her horse danced under her. They clearly were not stopping her for a simple talk or directions, they meant her harm.

_Damn_, she thought, and spurred her horse towards two men who lacked spears. They cried out in shock and instinctively stepped back. That was all it took for her to break through and give her mare head to run pell mell towards the keep. The huntsmen behind her screamed and she looked over her shoulder to see that they were attempting to chase after her. She breathed a sigh of relief; even with the snow and all the men, there was no way they could catch her. They had no horses that she saw, there was no conceivable way they could catch her. She sighed in relief.

Of course, at that moment her horse tripped and went down with a scream.

**-Game of Thrones-**

Sandor and a group of Winterfell soldiers rode hard into the Wolfswood. He'd lost thirty minutes picking out and organizing the men, then another thirty to forty questioning people who were up and about early that morning who might have seen their Lady ride out. Luckily, a farmer and his sons had spotted her as they travelled in and could point them towards the Wolfswood with great certainty. From there, Sandor and a couple of scouts were able to pick up her trail and follow it with ease at a quick pace.

"How far did she go?" He heard one of the men mutter. Sandor had the same question in mind, right behind his anger for her idiocy.

"Milord, we need to slow the horses. We don't know how far she went, we can't risk running them down."

This voice came from behind and center. It sounded like one of the more experienced men that had lived through the war.

"We'll slow when I say! Spread out!"

He glanced back to see the soldiers fanning out to either side of him. Nodding in approval, he turned forward and concentrated on the area. He cantered in line with her tracks, his mind on finding her as quickly as possible. They could not achieve that if they lost her trail, so Sandor took it upon himself to make sure they did not do that. That is how he noticed something very disheartening.

"Milord!"

"I see it! Fuck!"

Footprints converged on Sansa's and followed alongside them. He grit his teeth and stared ahead, eyes darting for any hint of his Little Bird.

"Those men are dead unless I say otherwise!" The Hound bayed at the men, demanding their obedience in this matter. No one wanted to see their Lady come to harm, and the possibilities had them all worried and ready to come at whoever may be coming after her with fangs bared.

Sandor's eyes caught something that made the anger he felt bubble over into rage. He held his hand up for a halt and circled around the terrible evidence of his Little Bird.

"Gods have mercy!"

Sansa's horse lay in the snow, blood pooled around it. Two spears were sunk into the mare's body; one in the strong muscles of the back leg, another deep in the neck. It had not happened much earlier, as the blood sluggishly ran out of the wounds and steamed in the cold even though the animal was clearly dead.

"Fuck the gods." Sandor rasped, teeth clenched. "I'll have no mercy."

**-A Game of Thrones-**

This story is actually finished, except for some editing. Expect the second and last chapter in a couple days. For suspense purposes, haha.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wolf Warrior**

**-Sfortuna**

**Notes:** Rating will go up on the next chapter, this one is still T.

**Chapter 2**

Sansa had been unable to jump away from her horse as it fell to the cold earth, kicking and screaming. Luckily, the snow helped pad her fall so that instead of a broken leg, she sustained a bruised one that refused to work properly. She crawled away from her mare as quickly as she could, leg awkwardly trailing in the snow. She watched her horse struggle to stand, still making those horrible sounds of pain. Noticing the spear embedded in the hind leg, Sansa wanted to curse herself for her carelessness. They were huntsmen, and she was the hunted. They had just leveled the field in their favor.

The men were whooping and hollering, running towards her like a horde out for blood. She used a nearby tree to try to pull herself to her feet, but her leg refused to hold. There was no way she would be able to get to her feet in time, let alone escape on foot from them. _If I live through this, Sandor will kill me_, she thought while searching the snow with hand and eye. She laid a hand on her dropped dirk and concealed it in her coat and cloak as best she could, then crawled back to the nearest tree and tried once again to pull herself to her feet. She failed, and by then the men were upon her.

Many hands grasped her, pulling at hair and clothes and limbs without care. They were all speaking and carrying on at once, tugging her in different directions and gloating over their catch.

"What about the horse?"

Sansa strained to look over at her mare. She could barely glimpse it through all the men surrounding her.

"We don't ha' th' time to help it. Gi' it mercy."

She heard a weapon force itself into her horse, which gave a last mournful cry as it finally lay still and died. Her heart broke a little for the mare that had served her well since her return to Winterfell. But she had no time for grief over the creature; clearly some sort of organization had occurred, as she was being dragged in one direction.

"We'll come back later for it right? Good eatin', horse."

"Aye, and it's a fat'un!"

They carried on like this for several minutes, dragging the Lady of Winterfell in the snow like a sack of potatoes and giving her a rough shake when she struggled in their grip. She quickly lost sight of her horse at the pace that the huntsmen travelled, and figured that as soon as she had a chance, she needed to make good on her escape. Sandor had taught her how to defend herself using the small dirk. For the first time in a long time she would have to put those skills to use again.

Sansa looked about her, trying to figure out the best strategy to use for her situation. At least a score of men surrounded her on all sides, and she was sure that as soon as they dragged her into their camp it would be much harder to escape. They would probably tie her up. Definitely rape her at some point, at least once per man. Maybe they would let her alone at night, give her a chance to steal into the night. There was the possibility that they would strip her though, find her dirk, leaving her utterly weaponless. No, there could be no positive in letting them make it back to camp with her. She would have to take her chances in fighting them off and making a run for it. If she knew her brother, he would have sent someone to look for her. And she knew Sandor much better; he would _definitely_ be looking for her, saddling a horse as soon as he noticed her disappearance.

Betting on luck and Sandor, the Lady of Winterfell made her move.

Sansa jerked her body like a fish out of water; the huntsmen, hyped up on their catch, were caught off guard and loosened their grip enough that she wiggled one arm away from them. Grabbing her weapon, she slashed at the nearest men, aiming for some deep thigh wounds.

_"Stab a man deep enough, and he'll bleed out like a stuck pig in minutes."_

She could not be sure if she had made any such wounds, too busy getting to her feet and slashing at any man brave enough to make a grab for her. A couple of them were screaming swears worthy of any sailor. Sansa looked around, seeing that they had all backed off, but kept a tight circle around her. A couple were clutching at wounds on their arms and legs, bleeding through their clothing and fingers. She was out-manned and out-armed, yet unwilling to lay down and show her belly to these poor excuses for hunters.

"See here, wench. We've got you caught right and proper. Give it up before we have to make a mess of you."

The man that had spoken appeared to be more older, a seasoned man that had survived at least one other winter, if not more. His clothes were of a better quality than the others and that was the only remarkable thing about him. The grime of travel and hard-living sat as thickly on him as the others. Just another man that had turned from an honest living.

"I am no wench. And I have yet to be _caught!_"

She darted towards two men that were too busy nursing their wounds to defend themselves properly. They stumbled backward, surprised, and cried out for help. She slashed at their faces, their bodies too thickly protected for her to gain a lucky blow, and tried to run past them. Unfortunately, their compatriots were much more aware and quickly fell upon her.

Her scream of rage echoed in the forest, much like the howling of a wolf.

**-Game of Thrones-**

The party from Winterfell jerked to attention when they heard a very loud, very feminine scream. Sandor did not pause for a second as he turned his horse in the direction of the tracks and, hopefully, the screaming.

"Kill them all!" The Hound exclaimed, kicking his horse into a gallop.

The soldiers followed as closely as they could, none daring to get too close to the fierce warhorse that suffered only Sandor upon its back. Snow flew up from the hooves of the riders, and it did not take take long for them to come upon a group of raggedly dressed men struggling against someone pinned to the ground. Without a word from their commander, they surrounded the men and drew their swords. Awareness spread throughout the wild men, and they settled into a tight circle with a struggling body in the center.

"Hand over the girl, and you might live to see tomorrow." The Hound's voice rasped over the sudden quiet that had fallen in the wake of the urgency and violence of moments earlier. This gave their captive a moment to gain her feet, revealing her identity to the Winterfell contingent. "You all right, my Lady?"

Sansa Stark had a high flush on her face, her hair tangled from her struggles and what might be the beginnings of a bruise shadowing her jaw.

"Well enough." She replied, more words being conveyed by her body language and eyes to Sandor than anyone else present would understand.

The huntsmen were well and truly caught in a snare of their own devising. They knew it too. They glanced at each other, eyes wide in fear and adrenaline. Some had obvious wounds, bleeding from fresh cuts. Sandor grinned, a look horrifying to many simply because of the way the burned side of his face twisted and twitched with the movement. To those a little more aware, they also feared the unholy glee that shined through at the sight of bloodshed.

One particularly scared and enterprising fellow slung an arm across the Lady of Winterfell's shoulders and stuck his axe to her neck.

"Leave off! We found her fair 'n all!" His voice trembled, running into a high pitch of a boy or young girl. His hands shook so that the axe drew blood from Sansa's fair neck.

As Commander of Winterfell's Guard and Master-at-Arms for the keep, Sandor Clegane had to protect the royal family at all costs. "My Lady?"

She had raised her head, trying to keep the jagged blade as far from her throat as possible. Her eyes never left the face of the man that she knew, knew with every fiber of her being, would look after her. She gave him an infinitesimal nod.

With no formal words or warning, Sandor rode in and hacked at the men that held his Little Bird. His men quickly followed, using their horses to separate the transgressors from each other, loosening and eventually breaking apart the knot that held their Lady. The struggle did not last long; the numbers were even, but one had much better quality arms and armor while the other barely survived in the wild with old garments and weapons. The mounts also made a huge impact. In a matter of minutes the huntsmen were left dead or dying in the snow, except for the one man that held his axe to Sansa's neck. He clearly had a little sense; the lady did not have a red smile.

The guards tightly circled in, leaving no room for escape. The Hound's warhorse bumped into the mounts to either side, agitated with the short fight and smell of blood in its nostrils. His rider kept him on a short rein. No one spoke to the grimy and desperate transgressor.

"Let me go, or I'll kill her! I will!" The man screamed, shuffling in a circle as if to show them the power he held over their Lady.

Sandor watched calmly. The fool had made many mistakes that day, and hurting his Little Bird would be the last. He nudged his violent horse forward when the others back was turned and stabbed his longsword deep into the space of collarbone and muscle, straight through the heart. The body refused to acknowledge it was dead for two gasping breaths, then seized, and relaxed into death.

Sansa Stark stood in the bloody mess of snow, alive and relatively unharmed.

**-Game of Thrones-**

She sat still as Sandor carefully rubbed a length of steaming wet linen across her neck. Ever so gently, he wiped at the bloodstains on her skin and cleaned her wound. He rinsed the cloth in a shallow tin of near boiling water, heated over a fire they had started after traveling a ways from the corpses of the huntsmen. The guards of Winterfell set up camp, occasionally passing by their Lady and expressing their well-wishes on her health. Each time she would smile warmly and thank them for their efforts. Each time, the leader of her rescue would snort and growl out a short chuckle.

Tents stood close the large fire that had been built. Two men stood guard on opposite sides of the tiny camp. The horses grazed through the snow at tiny little patches of green, grass too stupid to realize it was not quite spring, as well as pine needles. The wind howled high up in the trees and made the fire gust wildly at times. Little creatures poked out of their nests to observe the newcomers, and then hide again from the light.

Sansa hissed between her teeth, surprised by a sharp sting of pain.

"Ointment." Sandor grunted, carefully dabbing a thick smelly cream at the marks on her neck. His face, so close to hers, glowed red from the fire. They sat close for warmth and light; no matter how much he still hated fire, the Hound was very unwilling to risk anything that would harm her further.

"Do you ever think the maester will put forth the effort to make it smell better?" She asked, idly running her hands over her cloak.

"Stop talking. It makes your neck move." He replied. He smoothed a last little dab of the cream and then washed his hands in the bowl of water. "Probably not, he's too much the practical sort to worry about womanly sensibilities." He picked up a length of snow white linen from his lap and began to carefully wrap it around her wound, taking care to wrap tightly, but not so much that it would choke. He tied it off with a small knot and ran his hands around his work, feeling for any imperfections. "Don't bother asking either. No need wasting his time over it." He stroked one side of her neck delicately with his forefinger, making her shudder. That same finger curled under her chin and lifted it to the light. "We'll need to put a compress on that bruise. Should have done it sooner."

The Lady of Winterfell sighed. The bruise along her jaw throbbed painfully, and had already grown to a small bump along her flesh. She figured that it would turn some marvelous colors as it darkened and then lightened as it healed. Yet she would rather have a dozen more like it, honestly earned in a fight for her life, than the wounds that had been inflicted on her so long ago in King's Landing under Joffrey.

A rag full of snow pressed against her flesh, and she hissed once again in surprise.

"It's going to drip everywhere." She sighed in resignation.

"So long as it doesn't drip into your dressing." Sandor replied, heaving his armored self to his feet. He offered a hand to his Little Bird, which she took, and he pulled her to her feet. "You can relax in your tent, I'll bring you some dinner when it's ready."

She held his hand a few moments longer; it was so large that it completely engulfed her own. Calloused, dirty and bloodstained after the days work and battle, and scarred from past years of work and battle. The lady smiled up into his face and then slipped away before anyone was the wiser of the moment between them. She slipped into the small tent, a soldier's, that had been prepared for her. The snow had been shoveled away, the ground covered with a couple of layers of blankets. Her saddle and bags were placed in one corner, a bedroll laid next to it, with a tiny lamp hanging from the ceiling. It could not be confused for the usual traveling comforts meant for a Lady of noble birth, but Sansa had lived with far worse. Compared to past comforts, this rated beyond comparison.

She wrung out and refilled the rag full of snow twice before Sandor came to her with a stick of meat and vegetables. The meat came from her recently departed horse, which she did not particularly care for, yet the waste could not even be considered. Winter was leaving, but not gone.

"Turnips. Old ones, still good though. Spiced them as much as we could." He explained, watching as she thanked him and bit into the meat. His eyes narrowed, and he frowned down at her. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, Little Bird. Running off with no escort. Imagine my surprise when the Little Wolf called me to heel, only to send me to fetch you."

The turnip she bit into fell apart off the stick, and she struggled to catch it all in her hand. Ignoring him for the moment, she finished off the turnip and daintily wiped at her face with the rag that had once again melted free of snow.

"I needed to get out. The walls were closing in." She whispered, turning her head further away in shame. Lady Sansa knew it had been wrong to leave in the wee hours with no escort or note. She had felt trapped for the past two weeks, feeling too much like the captive of years ago, flapping fruitlessly at the bars of her cage.

Her Commander of the Guard sighed and then grumbled at nothing in particular, wishing to chastise her in his usual manner. It would do neither of them any good though, he was all too aware of what she felt. So he cursed and grumbled some more, running a hand through his long hair and trying to figure out if he should say anything and, if so, what. He glanced at her, nibbling at her food, and let go of his anger for the time being.

Sandor stepped forward, close to her in the small space, avoiding hitting the lamp. "It's all right Little Bird." He laid his hands on her shoulders, letting them rest there. Her long red hair tickled his fingers when she moved her head to look up at him."We'll talk to your brother about this tomorrow." Her smile appeared too fragile than he liked.

Kissing her forehead, he wished her a good rest before slipping out the tent flap and tending to his duties.

**-Game of Thrones-**

I actually decided to split this last chapter in two. So there's gonna be three chapters. Chapter three, coming soon to a fanfiction dot net near you! Reviews and constructive criticism welcome!


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